Never Know
by Jywy
Summary: "Now they'll never know it was me." Angst/Horror.


**Summary: "Now they'll never know it was me." **

**You will probably not like one of the characters at the end of the story. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters**

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The television was blaring out bad news as Peter Kirkland glared at his dad, Arthur Kirkland.

"I'm not two anymore, can't you let me have some freedom for once?"

Arthur Kirkland was settled deeply on the couch, watching the news. He simply took a swig of beer from a glass bottle and slammed it on the coffee table in front of him.

"Give. Me. Back. The. Internet." Peter seethed between clenched teeth, his thick eyebrows furrowing. But his brows were no match for his daddy's.

"Peter. You hacked into my bank account, stole my identity, and extracted ten thousand dollars. What do you have to say about that?" His dad slurred in a thick, British accent.

"You never lend me money for anything!"

"Of course I do, but you didn't ask for money this time! You still didn't tell me what it is for, though the thought of needing ten thousand dollars is ridiculous! You're not even old enough to drive, so it isn't on a car."

Silence.

"Or is it?"

Peter huffed from behind the couch, glaring at his dad's blond spikes that poked out from the top of the couch. Truthfully, Peter needed the money so he could pay back the bets he lost that he made with random people. He couldn't help but boast when his moods were up, though. Peter thought about this unhappily as he leaned back against the desk, letting the table top knock against the wall.

"But it doesn't mean you should censor or block the whole internet from me!" He hissed.

Arthur simply took another swig, and all could be heard was the flashing television that didn't help the mood.

"A young girl was murdered yesterday—"

"Hey, are you listening?" Peter yelled, but his dad didn't say a thing.

"—murder related to the others, recently?"

"You! Unblock the internet, already!" Peter was growing frustrated, not just from his lack of responsive dad, but from the growing shame that he couldn't find a way to get around the new parental controls. Peter was—no doubt—smart, but the new parental controls that blocked the internet seemed to be foolproof.

"—seems so, Sheri; however, there are no solid evidence that this is the same suspect—"

"Oi, bushy brows!" No matter how good Peter was in technology, imploring with eloquence was a different story.

"We do not yet know the suspect—"

"CHILD MOLESTER!" Peter exploded, desperate for an answer.

But Arthur made not a sound. Peter narrowed his eyes at this; usually shouting out Arthur's more-that-just-fatherly-love for Peter's older step brother would tick him off; Arthur was really touchy about that. Peter knew Arthur didn't really molest Alfred. Most likely. _No, he definitely didn't, _Peter shook his head. He was scaring himself.

Peter grumbled, blood boiling, and searched around. He caught a glimpse of the vase of flowers sitting innocently on the desk he was leaning on. His arm lashed out and swung at the vase, smacking it to the hard-wood floor.

_Crash! _The vase shattered, the blue pottery pieces rattled across the wood floor, while the liquid followed slowly but steadily, devouring any dry space on the wood.

But Arthur made not a sound. He didn't even acknowledge hearing it. Peter ran in front of the couch to see if he was asleep or dead, but he only saw the lazy, heavy eyelids and a strange smile. His dad's green eyes were now duller, cloudier. The red vessels clawed themselves against the white of his eyes. He was definitely very drunk.

"Here are all the victims that died recently in the past month," the news added.

Peter rolled his eyes and stomped out of the living room, then out of the house.

The sun was setting in shades of lovely colors that complemented each other. The clouds were painted like a water colors, colors smoothly running into each other, subtle, relaxed. The tips of the pointy autumn leaves glowed in the last, remaining rays of the retiring sun. The crisp air nipped at Peter's nose. He was already feeling better as he trotted down the cement stairs and into the broken, uneven sidewalk. The streets were empty, and Peter felt free as he moved further and further away from his house.

Usually, whenever Peter got out, he would try to forget about the argument and any of his troubles, but the more he tried not the think of it, the more he does think of it, and it crept onto his mind before making its final attack.

_Seriously, it's not like I'm five and I need internet censorship. _Peter blew hot air in the cold wind. _It's only ten thousand dollars from our millions._

Peter's blood was boiling, his brows scrunched and eyes squinted. Every stride he took became stronger, faster. Unpleasant thoughts rubbed together like nails on chalkboard and his head was saw the smug, smirking faces, the sniggers from his "friends.", and the stares, the hollow, empty stares of the people that casted him out.

Individually, none of these were to blow off steam over, but together they wore him down, and Peter ran. The blood in his body pounded, and with every stride he took, he felt like he was smashing away all his problems. For the first time in years, exercise felt _good_.

.

However, a body doesn't simply adjust to the task when it has been rusty for so long, and eventually, Peter stopped, coughing, feeling as if his lungs were made of dust. His sides felt like stabbing knives and his legs were stiff.

He shivered. Then he looked up.

The sun was already gone. The wind blew at him, and he felt like his blood froze. Crickets chirped in dark bushes. He was still in the suburbs, but he didn't know where was home. The trees rustled, and Peter spied a tiny glow of light from behind a tree. He moved around the tree, and—there: a swarm of blinking and consistent pinpricks of light gather around; advertising. It was the city. Peter checked behind him from where he came from. There was complete darkness. He swung his head back up front. Little lights. He decided he should head on to the city, where he could call his dad to drive him home, rather than walk back where he came from in the dark with no idea where he was.

Peter sighed and headed towards the city, stepping on dry, brittle leaves under his feat, knowing his dad would not be happy.

.

It was probably just a few more minutes later when Peter suddenly stopped. He didn't exactly know why, but it was an instinct. Though his feet stopped, the crunching of the leaves didn't. Peter whirled around. All was silent. The specks of the city lights were still not strong enough to show anything behind him.

Peter took a deep breath he didn't know he was holding, and cautiously went on to the city, his ears strained for any sound.

_Crunch_

Peter gasped, knowing that it wasn't from him, and quickened his pace.

_Crunch, Crunch, snap!_

At the snap, Peter made a mad dash towards the city, but his calves were already worn-out from his earlier running and fast walking, his heart not fully recovered from the sprint, and his mind dazed from lack of oxygen. His ears lacked the ability to hear the pounding of his own footsteps, which was now replaced by the vibrations from his insides. The blood pulsed, thudding into his brain, wiggling his skin. The sound was a dead thud, but a powerful one; perhaps a powerful thud to wake the dead. Screeching was scraping at his skull, but he couldn't tell if it was coming from his lips, someone else's, or if he was just imagining it. Reality and thoughts collided like two angry male rams, and neither knows which one is which; nor do they remember what they were fighting for anymore.

Pretty soon, the feeling from his limbs was gone, and direction was pointless. The dark wasn't even needed to muddle his eyesight, for sight was no longer an option. Was he running? It was as if he was free falling blindly, waiting to crash. There was nothing stable to hold on to, only the thumping of his veins and the dissonance ringing in his ears. He could only hope he didn't trip—_bam_! The sidewalk was jagged, broken up and his toes were caught. He fell straight down, and probably banged his knee. Something wet stuck on his fingers—was he bleeding? The thudding was only louder, his heart nearly bursting through his ribs. It was a struggle to breath between the angry hammerings of his heart.

If his eyes were open or closed, he didn't know, but his hearing caught on, and something was breathing heavily above him. A strong smell of alcohol burned his lungs and the blank feeling he had was akin to time stopping.

Time must have gone by, but for Peter, it didn't as he opened his eyes and encountered a little square of light flashing in front of him. A few more blinks and he realized it was a TV. The news was on in the dark, apparently.

"The murderer has done it again! This time, he kidnapped a—"

Peter shifted weight. He felt like he was sitting on something hard…something wooden…perhaps a table.

"That's right, Sheri. Here, I am at the scene—"

He tried to move his limbs, but the more he tried, the more pressure of the opposite force there was.

"—twelve year old Peter Kirkland—"

_What? _

"—was kidnapped yesterday right here in the suburbs just outside of New York City. As you can see, the victim seems to have tripped on these broken up cement—"

_Holy…they're talking about me._ Peter tried to shout he was here, but something held him back. Only muffling escaped.

"Yes, his father was in shock when he was told this—"

_My father?_ Peter thought. He adjusted his eyes and realized there was a couch between him and the TV. Familiar blond spikes poked out of the couch top, flaming from the light of the TV. There was a sigh, and the television shut off. Nothing could be seen besides the photo stress square that came from staring at the TV.

There was a chuckle from a familiar, British accented voice, only without the slur.

"Now they'll never know it was me."

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**Many thanks to my beta: SyrenHug**


End file.
